The shuffling steps came closer. A stooped, white-haired man, wearing soiled and unpressed tweeds, stepped through the door. Greg seized the newcomer's shoulder; the man gave a bleat of animal terror. "Who the hell are you?" Greg demanded. "Dr. Vayle--Adrian Vayle." "The astrophysicist?" Greg remembered the name from the ponderous text he had studied in the flight school. The old man straightened his shoulders with a semblance of pride. "You know me?" "What are you doing in Port City?" "This is where I live. I couldn't stand it in the city any longer and I didn't want to emigrate to the colonies. The children don't object. They bring us supplies. Holly and I are quite comfortable." Dr. Vayle ran his fingers over Greg's uniform. "You're a pilot! I haven't met one in years. Usually the children send them back to the colonies as soon as they land." "Where do you live, Dr. Vayle?" "The best hotel in town. I'll show you." He bent closer and whispered, "And I'll let you see what we're working on. But I have to have my nightcap first." Vayle groped in the dark for a bottle. He drank the liquor eagerly, wiping his lips on his sleeve. Greg and the astrophysicist went outside. Greg looked along the deserted street for the twelve year old, but the boy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had returned to Chicago. Yet if he had come to send Greg back to the colonies, would he have given up so easily? The blue intersection lights swam in a comfortable haze, spinning when Greg looked at them directly. Occasionally the drifts of sand seemed to run like water and Greg became unsure of his footing. He knew he was drunk, but alcohol had never interfered with his reasoning. Back in the bar he had made a tremendous discovery; he mustn't let it slip his mind. The children were alien invaders: that was it. In the morning he would be able to decide what he was to do with the information. The old man took him to a pseudo-Spanish structure across the main highway from the field. The _Biltmore Hacienda_, at one time the gaudiest and costliest hotel in Port City. Now the neon signs were out, the streetfront shops were closed, and only a pale light glowed dimly behind the ornate, iron gate. * * * * * As he followed Vayle up the three tile steps, Greg looked back toward the field. He saw his ship standing in its landing slot. Someone was working to unload his useless cargo of Redearth. The field attendant was displaying an unusual conscientiousness, Greg thought; he hadn't expected action in less than a week. Then, abruptly, Greg knew the real significance of such prompt service. It fit with the discovery he had made in the bar. The only trouble was, his mind was too hazy for him to grasp the connection clearly. It would come to him later; he was sure of that.